the electricity posts in my veins are all broken and there aren't enough electrical engineers to revive them. the atmosphere is getting colder and the flowers in my tongue slowly whither. i'm running out of words to use for a the color of your eyes so im sorry if they turn out to be like anyone else's. the absence of the tidal waves of poetic awakening cripples my wrist and fingers until the only way to get me to write is to bleed. i want to feel alive like im a cloud swimming through the fantastic colors of the sky. i miss the way ink drips from my fingertips i want to feel home again. home with words, with poetry. laying down on a bed of proses while a piece sings softly in the background. that's my hyper-reality, a kind of fantasy i can no longer find meaning in.